


If you had a part of me (would you take your time)

by asuralucier



Category: Ideal Home (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking Up & Making Up, Gourmet Home Cooking, M/M, New York, Panic Attacks, Supermarket Sushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Paul has a panic attack while producing on theRachael Ray Show. He hasn’t spoken to Erasmus in months, but he can’t think of anyone else to call. Sometimes, old habits really suck (and not in the nice way, either).
Relationships: Erasmus Brumble/Paul Morgan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20
Collections: Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	If you had a part of me (would you take your time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowerdeluce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/gifts).



> A big thank you to ictus about the size of a huge pizza pie (in keeping with the theme).

While Rachael Ray is extolling the health benefits of avocado, Paul Morgan is hiding in a stall in the men’s, having a _thing_. He’s left Tanner in charge for now, but really, Paul doesn’t have time for this. 

This doesn’t make sense. Paul hasn’t had a thing for months. And downsizing from a palatial hacienda in Santa Fe, to half a cardboard box (not exactly, but close) in the middle of Manhattan is worthy of several things all rolled into one. He hasn’t had a roommate since his college days, but it’s nearly impossible to live alone in the Big Apple.

Paul has been wanting to move to New York for a long time. While he was at Wesleyan, he had fond memories of driving nearly two hours with friends to the city for the entire weekend. The younger version of Paul had had his life all mapped out; New York would be its centerpiece, and here he is, twenty and a bit years too late.

(But still, he’s here, and that’s gotta count for something, right?)

Paul slumps down on the toilet seat and bends forward, so that his head is more or less between his legs. He draws in air the best he can, the oxygen in his lungs ragged and thin, and in the next second, tries to push out as much air in his exhale as he can manage. 

And again. And then...again. It gets harder each time. 

Fuck, it really feels like Paul’s about to die. Then that’d really be a thing. While the rational part of his brain is telling him that he won’t, he’s probably suffering oxygen deprivation to his brain right at this very moment. It’s impossible to think straight.

It’s probably oxygen deprivation (and absolutely nothing else) that causes Paul to get out his phone, to dial a number he hasn’t called in months but still knows by heart. 

“...Hello?”

On top of everything else, Paul is busy in New York; he’s busy with his new job, he’s busy with his new (old) friends. He doesn’t think about Erasmus. He doesn’t think about the various knick-knacks that have probably moved into the house since then to fill in the gaps, not to mention the men who have done the same. 

“Hello? Paul, is that you?” 

“Ye-ah,” Paul forces the word out. “Erasmus, I’m…” 

He hears some shuffling at the other end, and then the unmistakable clink of a glass being put down. Paul bites back a reproachful, “Goddamn it, it’s not even fucking noon,” but only in his head. 

“Paul? Listen to the sound of my voice, all right? You better not be thinking about how I’m drinking tequila.” Erasmus pauses there and continues, sounding just a bit sorry, “I mean, I am, and it’s in a tumbler so it’s civilized...but that’s hardly important. I’m not filming today. I should be, but filming’s been suspended for a couple of days while we get rid of some wasps.” 

“Wasps,” Paul gasps out. “What the fuck?” 

“That’s what I said,” Erasmus agrees. “Really mean, _nasty_ little things.” 

Paul wheezes some more, and Erasmus seems to take a hint. He changes tack. “I made an omelette yesterday mostly in my sleep, really went all out adding saffron and dates. I thought you might like to know that I’m getting better about cooking for one, lonely as that gets. I try to donate my leftovers but people don’t seem that interested.” 

And just like that, Paul’s breathing is mostly back to normal. He can breathe in; he can breathe out. Things are fine. He starts to ask about these “people” but then a loud rapping sound on the door snaps him out of it. 

“Hey, man. You okay in there? Not constipated or anything, right?” It’s Tanner. 

“Who’s that lovely-sounding fellow?” Erasmus wonders, without missing a beat. 

“A guy I work with,” Paul says. “He’s perfectly lovely, thank you.”

“Oh,” Erasmus says. 

“I have to go.” Paul says and before the conversation can extend any further, and inevitably, go to dark, familiar places, he hangs up. Then he steps out of the stall and finds Tanner still standing there. 

“Who’s that?” Tanner asks.

Paul brushes him off. “A guy I used to work with, nobody really.” 

. . . 

The tiny apartment that Paul shares with Tanner and Tanner’s friend Bob has an even tinier kitchen. It’s impossible for all three of them to be in there at the same time, so there’s a cooking schedule tacked on to the fridge. Paul gets Wednesdays and Thursdays. Tanner gets the weekend, and Bob gets the start of the week. Takeout is allowed, but only the not shit kind, and pizza is a no-go lazy option unless you schlep to Totonno’s in Brooklyn and wait two hours in line. 

They’re both nice guys, and Paul knew Tanner in college, but somehow, Paul had expected a little bit more of New York. 

“Seriously though,” Tanner says with his mouth full of cheesy pizza. “Just look at his _face_. Nobody on Earth who’s fucking sane is this happy about...anything. No wonder Rach’s outselling him by miles.” 

The pizza is cold by the time it gets home. The cheese is mostly stringy and tired, the pepperoni is now crusty with cold grease pooling in the middle; but it’s not like Paul can complain, since both Tanner and Bob both see Totonno’s as the be all and end all of pizza. It’s not terrible, but Paul is not the biggest fan of cold pizza. He reaches for his beer to wash down the bite he has just taken. “Whose face are we laughing at?” 

“Erasmus Brumble’s.” Tanner sticks his phone right in Paul’s face. Paul’s really not ready for Erasmus’s white teeth to take over his vision right then. Paul barely remembers what Erasmus’s teeth used to look like before American dentistry fixed him up for TV, but suddenly, everything hurts. “Man, Paulie, _please_ tell me you didn’t have anything to do with the cover. That smile practically screams ‘don’t buy me; don’t follow these recipes. I’m fucking insane.’” 

“I didn’t,” Paul says tightly, telling the truth, but everything still hurts.

He’d told Tanner and the rest of Rachael’s crew a carefully truncated version of his life in Santa Fe; there was no use lying about having worked on _Ideal Home_ with Erasmus because they’d just all find out anyway. But Paul had downplayed his life with a long-term partner, if only because it was not anyone’s business. Besides, if anyone had gotten wind that he’d been dating _Erasmus Brumble_ , he’d probably never hear the end of it. 

Speak of the devil. 

Paul’s phone is going off in his pocket. He checks the number and sighs. Erasmus always has the best and worst timing. 

“Sorry, guys, gotta take this.” 

. . .

“Did I catch you at a bad time, darling?” 

Paul stands against his bedroom door, trying to block out the sounds of Bob and Tanner chewing and talking at the same time. He’d squeezed his eyes shut, so he didn’t have to look at the five by twelve that served as his bedroom. Most of his stuff is still in a storage unit two blocks away from the apartment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in a single bed and sometimes, Paul still wakes up in the middle of the night, clutching his pillow on the floor. 

“We were just having dinner.” 

“We?” 

“Yeah, me with some fetching young fellows that I might screw later.” Paul means that as a joke, but it comes out heavier than he wants it to.

Erasmus is silent on the other end. Like, Paul can’t even hear the guy breathing.

“Erasmus? Still there?” 

“Yes.” Short, and curt. Just sulking then. 

Despite himself, Paul can’t help but smile. Erasmus did always look a bit cute when he was throwing a tantrum or sulking. If he hadn’t thought that about Erasmus, Paul probably wouldn’t have lasted ten years with the man. “I’m joking. They’re my roommates. We’re having the finest pizza in Brooklyn. But it’s cold.” 

“You heathens,” Erasmus huffs. And then, “Roommates?” 

Paul laughs, and not nicely, either. “Have you looked at rent prices in New York, recently?” 

“Do you need money? I could have my lawyer send you some.” 

“What? No! I have a job, I’ll...manage. Why’d you call me?” 

“Just to say hello,” Erasmus says, but there’s something, an intention just under the lightness of his tone that Paul can’t quite figure out. 

“My ass.” 

“I could say hello to your arse too, if you want. I do miss it.” 

Paul breathes noisily through his nose. “Sometimes, you really don’t help yourself. What do you _want_ , Erasmus?” 

Another pause, and then Erasmus says, “I heard from Bill.” 

Paul’s stomach is suddenly in knots, and he suddenly can’t really _breathe_. “...Bill?” 

Christ, Paul’s _things_ know how to hit him when it really hurts. He sucks in as much air as he can into his lungs - his rib cage expanding so wide, it feels as though the bones might break through the skin.

“Paul? Paul. Listen to me.” Erasmus’s voice sounds far away, but Paul finds himself yearning towards it. “In. And out. In. And out. Did I tell you that they’re a terrible restaurant chain? Family owned or not.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with In ‘n Out. It’s better than Taco Bell,” Paul says, and the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. “I’m...I’m okay.” 

“Of course you are.” 

Paul slumps down so he’s sitting on the ground. “What’s this about Bill?”

“Hold on one moment. I’m sending you a picture.” 

“It better not be a picture of your dick.” 

“...No, it isn’t.” Erasmus drags out the words. “But would you like one? It can be arranged.” 

“Shut up.” 

Paul’s phone buzzes next to his ear, alerting him to a picture message. Erasmus has sent him…

A photo of Bill standing next to what looks like a pretty good attempt at a pineapple upside down cake, even though some of the cherries seem to be a little off-center. 

“He sent me a text too,” Erasmus is talking again and Paul puts his phone back to his ear so he can hear better. “Dear Erasmus and Paul. I made this. It’s a pineapple-upside-down cake. I purposely put the cherries not in the middle so that they look less like boobs. I hope you are both doing OK. Bill.” 

Paul steals another look at the picture. “They do kind of look like boobs.” 

“I got that on my first try.” Erasmus sounds smug. 

“Because you are, in actual fact, about eight years old?” Paul shakes his head. Then he says, “Bill doesn’t know we broke up.” 

“I didn’t think that was an appropriate thing to tell a child,” Erasmus says. “Anyway, I texted him back saying we were both fine. Okay.” A pause. “Are you okay?” 

Paul swallows down something funny in this throat the best he can. “Yeah. I’m okay. I will be.” 

. . .

“Hold up.” Tanner holds up a hand. “You were _dating_ Erasmus Brumble. How come we never heard about this?”

Paul stares down at his cocktail for answers. What started out as a perfectly wonderful, balanced espresso martini (this particular bar was touting them as “man”-tinis - paying homage to the cocktail being made with particularly bitter espresso from Robusta beans to offset the immediate sweetness of Kahlúa) now seems nearly undrinkable. It’s not that the bitterness has suddenly become unbearable it’s - Paul shakes himself. He doesn’t want to think about it. “I didn’t want to bring my personal life to work.” 

“But you also worked on his show,” Bob says. “How’d that work?” 

“It didn’t,” Paul purses his lips firmly against his glass. “Anyway. He’s coming to visit next week, I just didn't want it to be awkward.” 

“Of course it’s not going to be awkward, man. We got this. We’re _on your side_.” Tanner claps him soundly on the shoulder. “Who wants another drink?” 

. . .

“This is worse than supermarket sushi,” Erasmus declares loudly and Paul kind of wants to hide under his table and die a little bit. Surprisingly, he’s not had a _thing_ yet, but dinner is only halfway finished and there’s still time yet. “This is a crime against sushi rice, I mean, just _look_ at this atrocity.” 

So saying, Erasmus pokes at the little sad lump of rice with some sliced tuna on top of it. Asian is really not Bob’s forte, but hey, the guy needs practice. What Paul’s learned from this, is that he’s been away from Erasmus too long. Of course the man won’t behave himself for just a few hours around other people. 

Tanner gets up and checks the fridge. “Yep, that’s the last beer.” _Whoever had it, fuck you,_ is the rest of his sentence but he doesn’t say it out loud. 

“I’ll go get some more,” Paul sighs, standing up. He tugs Erasmus at the back of his bright pink shirt collar and the other man leans back to look up at him. 

“Yes, darling?” The perfect picture of - something. Paul bites down on his tongue and tries not to think of what. 

“You’re coming with me.”

Paul almost expects Erasmus to argue. After all, that’s the natural cycle of things. They’ll make up a tiny bit, and then they’ll argue too much. Thankfully, Erasmus has rented his own little luxury apartment not too far away. (“There’s no way I’m staying in a cardboard box.” Not that Paul was going to invite him to stay anyway. But that sort of detail never bothers Erasmus.) 

But Erasmus merely shrugs. “All right. Could use some fresh air.” 

. . .

Paul buys a couple of six packs from the bodega around the corner and comes back out to find Erasmus hard at work tapping out a text message. 

“It’s Bill again. He’s sent us a picture of a pork tenderloin. It’s a bit over, but not bad. I told him I’m visiting you in New York.” 

“What?” Paul says, a touch too sharply. 

“Relax,” Erasmus says soothingly, giving his arm a lingering squeeze. “I said it was a vacation and you’d gone before me.”

“Erasmus, I don’t think it’s healthy to lie to a kid.” 

Erasmus appears to think this over, then he nods, as if conceding a point. “You’re the one who didn’t want to tell him we broke up.” 

“So it’s _my_ fault again?” 

Erasmus’s gaze slides away from him, almost guilty. “I didn’t say that.” 

“You implied it!” Paul would have thrown up his hands, but belatedly remembers he’s holding a bag of beer in both hands. The bags split from the upset and cans roll all over the sidewalk. People passing by toss them strange looks, but otherwise step around the cans and keep on going on their way. 

Paul grits his teeth. “ _Fuck_.” 

Instead of piling it on, the way the man does, Erasmus simply goes and collects all the cans and lines them up neatly by Paul’s feet. “I’ll go see if they’ll lend us another carrier bag.”

“...Can I see Bill’s pork tenderloin?” 

Erasmus seems surprised, but then his gaze softens. “Of course.” He hands Paul his phone and steps into the bodega. 

Paul resists the urge to check the rest of Erasmus’s messages and scrolls to the latest text from BILL BRUMBLE. The tenderloin is indeed a little over and the polenta just looks lumpy. But still, not bad for a first try, considering that it’s a difficult cut to work with. At the bottom of the screen is Erasmus’s latest reply: 

_Dear Bill. Paul and I are on vacation this week to New York. He has gone ahead of me and I miss him a lot. We both miss you too. That pork tenderloin looks fabulous, but maybe a minute less on each side. Do you have a timer? Or a watch? If you text your address we can send you one or both. Erasmus._

“And that’s us sorted,” Erasmus says, bending down to put the cans back into new bags. “Paul?” 

Paul doesn’t trust himself to speak. He watches Erasmus bag the rest of the cans, wondering if this is what an out of body experience must feel like. 

“Here’s your phone,” is what Paul manages, and that’s fine. That needs to be done. “I’ll take the bags.” 

“Oh, well. Thank you, Paul.” 

But then Paul says, and it looks like neither of them are prepared for it at all: “Where are you staying again?” 

. . .

“How much does this _cost_?” Paul can’t help but gape and think that this is _unfair_ , but that’s life. The luxury apartment that Erasmus has rented for himself is part of a block that Paul has seen advertised on TV. The ads didn’t emphasize the “luxury” part of it enough. 

“A...lot?” Erasmus tries. “My bills have gone down ever since we - I stopped having parties. I thought I might treat myself. Viva New York!” He throws up his hands dramatically. 

“Yeah, and what do your kept boys think about that?” Pauls counters. He can’t help it. He’s suddenly bitter that Erasmus can afford such an extravagant vacation home while Paul can’t exactly afford to unload his stuff from the storage unit. Well, he can, but Paul likes having money for emergencies. 

Erasmus tugs his lilac spotted tie loose from his throat and pops a couple of buttons on his shirt. He sighs, but a little less dramatically this time. “There aren’t any. There isn’t even Tino. I fired him. Thought it might be best. I didn’t want our misunderstandings to um. Well.” 

Paul swallows. “You don’t get to do this.” 

“I’m not doing anything,” Erasmus says. “Like, really. You should see the house. It’s like a bomb went off in there. I can’t stand being there by myself sometimes. But I -” He breaks off abruptly.

Like Erasmus is some sort of super powerful magnet, Paul goes to him. There’s a niggling voice in his head that says this time will be like all the other times. Too little too late. But still, he takes Erasmus in his arms and feels the man relax against him. 

They kiss, and that’s natural too, and Paul maneuvers their position slightly so that he’s got Erasmus trapped against the wall. Erasmus, for his part, slides one leg between Paul’s thighs, so that there’s no mistaking his intention. 

“Did you mean it?” Paul murmurs against Erasmus’s jaw, intent on tracing a path of skin down his throat. 

“Mean what?” 

“What you said to Bill. That you missed me.” Paul slides his hands down the length of Erasmus’s torso. Even post-fifty (“When life sort of _ends_ , darling, let me tell you.”) Erasmus is a man who is rightly proud of his body. Kept boys or not, he hasn’t let himself go. Paul wastes no time undoing Erasmus’s paints and cupping his groin, feeling the man’s dick twitch in his hands. 

“That’s not a fair question when you’ve got my cock in your hand,” Erasmus says, his eyes closed. 

“If you don’t answer honestly,” Paul starts, taking a moment to think. But still, while he does, his hand does a little thinking of his own, pumping Erasmus in slow, teasing strokes until Erasmus groans, pushing into his hands. “I won’t blow you.” 

“I miss you,” Erasmus says. “I miss you, and I can’t live without you. I’m sorry. I wasn’t lying when you left.” 

Paul blinks hard. “I believe you.” And for once, he thinks he does. 

The next morning, Paul and Erasmus wake in a tangle of sticky and slightly damp sheets, and Paul presses a hand over the curve of Erasmus’s ass, grinning as the other man leans into his touch. He’s probably going to get hell from Tanner and Bob later, but that’s later. 

But then, a sharp trill of a ringtone blasts from somewhere under the pile of their discarded clothes. 

“That’ll be me. God. I hope it’s not production calling about another wasp problem.” Erasmus stretches out and Paul admires the view until Erasmus says, “Get me my phone will you, please, darling?” 

“Get it yourself, lazy ass,” Paul says, sleepy, but his muscles are gearing up for another round of fighting-maybe-fucking which may or may not be a good thing. 

“I will then,” Erasmus gives a bit of a huff, but then he does get up to rummage through the pile of clothes. When he finally finds his phone, he frowns at the screen. Before Paul can ask him what’s wrong, Erasmus has already picked up: “Erasmus Brumble speaking?” In an instant, his expression goes from puzzled to deeply concerned and he rubs between his eyebrows, as if to get rid of some of his wrinkles. 

“Yes, yes. Of course, Mr. Morgan and I will be right there. As soon as we can.” 

. . .

“You’re late,” Bill glares at them both halfheartedly from the hospital bed and for a moment, Paul’s heart seizes again in warning. But Erasmus seems to have caught on to his discomfort and squeezes his hand tight enough to hurt.

Somehow, that makes it better.

“Well, if you’d paid attention in school, you would have known that New York and New Mexico are kind of far away from each other,” Paul says, trying and failing to sound stern. His body betrays him, going to Bill’s bedside and he kisses the top of the kid’s head. Bill’s seems to be stewing with something, but then he lets it go. 

Erasmus joins Paul, putting his cheek against Bill’s stomach. He listens for a moment. “You sound hungry, Bill.” 

“Hospital food really sucks,” Bill says. “They messed up the jello too. Even I can do better than that!” 

“I have no doubt,” Erasmus agrees in a grave tone. 

“When I come home with you, you’ll show me how to do the pork tenderloin better, right?” Bill tucks his chin into his neck in an effort to look at Erasmus. “I mean, I can come home with you, right?” 

Erasmus looks up at Paul. “If Paul says it’s all right.” 

In not so many words, Erasmus is asking him something else. Paul exhales through his nose and closes his eyes. “Yeah, of course you can, Bill. I can’t wait. There’s no place like home.”


End file.
